Demons
by a.fictional.love
Summary: He always knew that it wasn't the monsters outside that would get him; they didn't stand a chance. It was the ones inside that would do him in, the ones that waited for him to close his eyes before they came out to play...


**It has been two months since the best show on TV was cancelled. I've had this written for a while, but I found today fitting to post it.**

**I fell in love with Eliot. Then I fell in love with _Demons_ by Imagine Dragons. Then I put the two together and realized that I hadn't known what love was until that moment. If you don't know the song, go listen to it (or not, you know, whatever). If you listen to the words, you can follow along.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Leverage_ and I do not own _Demons_. I'm just one of the many that wishes she could have Eliot.**

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_Demons_

Eliot stepped out into the frigid air and started to run. It hurt his chest, the little shards of ice that seemed to slice into his lungs, but he'd been through worse pain before. Much worse pain, lots of times before. It was what he did, what he was good at. And it was why the rest of the team felt the need to pat him on the back - or poke his bruises - after a job. He hated that. Despised it, really.

He ran faster, feet pounding angrily on the sidewalk. He was no hero, and when they painted him as one, an itch developed in his stomach, one that could only be satisfied by aggressive movement. Bashing heads, knocking skulls - yeah, that was hero stuff for sure, worthy of medals of honor and purple hearts. He shook his head and rushed the upward slanted pavement until he thought his knees might buckle and his breath came in ragged gasps.

He'd never wanted to be that man, the one who kicked and punched and could kill a man with a plastic spoon and a piece of uncooked spaghetti. But it was him - whom his country had needed, whom the people of Croatia had needed, whom his team needed. It was him, and he was far enough down that road to know it was a waste of time to turn back. Not that turning back was even a possibility now.

He could always feel it under his nails, even when it wasn't there - the dirt, the grime...

He snorted with grim humor at the thought. He wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself. The blood was always there.

No matter how much he washed, how hard he scrubbed, his hands would never be clean of his actions, his mind never clean of his past. All he could do was keep it to himself, not trouble the team with his nightmares. He would never do that to them. Braver, stronger, better men than he was had cracked under far less than his bags of grief. But he always knew that it wasn't the monsters outside that would get him; they didn't stand a chance. It was the ones inside that would do him in, the ones that waited for him to close his eyes before they came out to play.

And yet, even after every night like that, he went about his next day just the same, prepared to make someone hurt. That would always be him, especially as long as his team needed him that way. The only consolation was that he wasn't a gun for hire anymore, taking down no-name, no-face targets in exchange for briefcases full of cash. Now, it wasn't about the money. It wasn't about the target, either. It was about his team and the client.

And if he had to break a few noses to see a child's smiling face, so be it.

Honestly, those goons just had to look a little closer if they wanted to save themselves a hell of a lot of trouble...and pain. Eliot knew he was shorter than most men considered to be phenomenally dangerous. Back in high school, his lack of height had bothered him. Now, he enjoyed being underestimated; it gave him a few seconds to ponder the best way of letting all hell break loose. He usually waited until his opponent - or opponents - looked him in the eyes. He'd steel his gaze and let them see, just briefly, what they had gotten themselves into. When their eyes widened and their mouths went slack, he knew they realized their mistakes. It even made the corner of his mouth twitch upwards when the dumb ones still came forward with flailing fists. He actually found it more of a challenge not to damage them beyond repair, especially the ones that were asking for it. And the idiots. But mostly the ones that were asking for it.

About a minute later, he'd leave them exactly where he'd found them - with the minor exception of the fact that they were horizontal instead of vertical - and he would head back to the team, usually stationed somewhere nearby in Lucille. Once he started walking, though, he never looked back. He also never forgot how close he really was to them as he left them behind. How he used to be one of them.

At one point in his life, he'd been where they were - well, not exactly, because he'd never been knocked out. But there was no difference between a corrupt government official hiring some goons and Damien Moreau hiring him.

That Eliot and all his associates were behind him now, and behind his front of being perfectly fine. But just like Moreau had surfaced again, he fully expected the rest of his little friends to come pay him a visit one day.

And when that day came, the team may see them as more marks to con, but he would know them for what they were: Lethal men with psychopathic tendencies and no shortage of firearms. He'd been sent all over the world to point the trigger and shoot, and strangely, it wasn't in those moments that he felt the most inner conflict. He knew it would be in these. Part of him wanted to tell his team, to warn them. He knew what they were capable of, he knew they could handle themselves - they were his team.

But that was just it. They were his team. _His_ team, and he would do anything he had to in order to keep them out of it, to keep them safe.

His road to hell had been paved with bad intentions. Now it was gilded with good ones, but it was still a road to hell.

But whether it was a fancy path leading him there or a crummy dirt road, it was where he expected to end up one day. And probably where he deserved to end up one day. Not that he could change anything about that. He could take the heat; he always could. He always did.

And in return, he dished out his own. The monsters within him reared their ugly, bloodthirsty heads, pushing him to go further into his past, further into the shadows, until it swallowed him up and he returned to what he had been: one of them. A monster.

He knew how to succumb to them; he'd done it before and had remained in that cycle for wasted years of his life. But those frenzied whispers echoing in the silence were not as loud as the piercing screams that rang in his ears. Those fiendish red orbs glowing in the darkness were not as bright as the pleading eyes that were imprinted in his mind. He pushed them back, refused their advances.

It was the kindness, the care, the compassion he had received that had changed his heart. They fully accepted him, knowing he wasn't big on sharing. Knowing he wasn't innocent. Knowing there was more to him than met the eye. Knowing they would never get his full story if he could help it. And for once, a team looked at him as more than just the muscle. His team. It was his team that was doing it to him, making the fight manageable.

It was still a fight, a constant struggle which he could do nothing about. It was part of him, like a shadow; darkest when he thought he was in the lightest places, always right behind him.

But he'd be damned if he ever let it happen again. If he let it happen to them.

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They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. He wasn't sure about that, because his eyes didn't match his soul's dirty, muddy mess. But somedays, he could see his reflection in the eyes of his team, of his opponents: When Conrad realized that torture does work; when Dubenich was staring up at the nozzle of his gun; when Parker asked what he had done for Damien Moreau. He saw it. Fear. Misery. Despair. Torment.

That was when he believed that the red-eyed monsters could be seen. That was when he believed that his eyes changed color, because they suddenly looked as black as he knew his soul was.

But then, the moment was over, the evil handled, and his demons returned to their spot in his being, tucked away in darkness until the next time they chose to resurface and betray his past.

He'd been told he had blue eyes. Sometimes, they looked green. He preferred to think of them as a gray area.

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**Kind of a ramble...anyway, reviews are more than welcome! Did I do Eliot justice? Please tell me!**


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